


Dog Days

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: This Isn't A Relationship, It's A Liability [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:42:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do a genericon with the voice of Megatron and a widower on the Warworld have in common?  </p><p>A relationship with a Phase Sixer, and the Decepticon Justice Division.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Some Background

 

 **Title:** Dog Days  
**Warning:** Spoilers for MTMTE, domestication, a very angry, grieving widower, BDSM mentions, and awkward robots.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Continuity:** IDW AU where Nautilator survived.  
**Characters:** Black Shadow, Blue Bacchus, Sixshot, Fortress Maximus, Red Alert, Nautilator, and the Decepticon Justice Division. And Deathsaurus.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Black Shadow/Blue Bacchus, and Sixshot - Zoo.

**Part One: Some Background**

**[* * * * *]**

He knew he had fans, but he’d never had a fan get quite so excited about watching him fight. The way this guy moved, he must have memorized Black Shadow’s best moves and made up a style from there, and it was working for him. Usually the Decepticons who wanted to see Black Shadow in action didn’t survive watching. They took to the battlefield with him and generally became casualties of friendly fire if they made it past the Autobots. The kind of combat that called for one of the Warrior Elite wasn’t kind at all to lesser Decepticons. It was a tad unexpected that his newest fan had not only made it this far, but seemed to be keeping up on the killcount. It was impressive. He’d been keeping an optic on the guy out of steadily increasing interest, throwing tidbits of advice for better fighting technique that he seemed to soak up like a sponge, incredibly eager to learn. It was flattering, really, and it didn’t take much effort on Black Shadow’s part to keep the worshipful stares coming.

A tip here, a slice of banter there, maybe a casual shot obliterating an Autobot or six about to overwhelm the mech. Black Shadow was still surprised the mech was alive every time he turned to check. 

Plus, uh. _That._ That had just happened. That was plenty surprising all by itself.

“Did you just smack my aft?” Black Shadow squinted his optics, replaying the last few seconds in his head. He’d killed an Autobot, turned around to flash a smile at his self-proclaimed Number One Fan, turned back to the fight, and now his aft stung. Not in a bad way. Nothing was injured, but huh. Aft-smack? In the middle of combat?

Someone screamed as he smashed their face in, but the kill was made on automatic. He was paying more attention to the replay of a hand impacting on his aft. 

A somewhat manic smile answered him. The guy shot past, headed for the next Autobot to maul. “Yeah! What of it?”

He blinked at the carnage. Oookay. That was different. Well, the the flirting -- that was definitely flirting -- not the carnage. Carnage was pretty standard, even if this mech was unusual enough to have survived what the Warrior Elite considered standard. “Tell you what,” he said over the strangled howl of the Autobot he was choking the life out of, “you get out of this intact, I’ll let you buy me a drink.”

“Really?!” Internal parts went flying as the mech dropped the Autobot he’d been dissembling and started bouncing in place, optics brilliant and hands on his face like he could barely contain himself. Clearly, this was everything he’d ever wanted from life. “Yes!”

Black Shadow shook his head, unable not to smile at the enthusiasm. This was not his average fan. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Blue Bacchus!”

**[* * * * *]**

Nobody came for him. The metrotitan crushed him, armor crumpling like eggshells, and Sixshot stayed broken in his footprint. Metroplex moved on. He stayed.

Nobody had come for him, so Sixshot had attempted to go looking for help. He'd found no one. Fleeing hadn't worked, either. The thing about war was that it attracted scavengers. Those that didn't fight or flee pecked around the edges, feeding from the detritus left by battles or picking off survivors. Metroplex departed. The Autobots left soon after. Then, the scavengers moved in.

Left behind, Sixshot became a prize piece. The scavengers closed in on their payday, and it wasn't as though he could fight back. The first scavenger to find him straight-out tracked him down carrying a leash. No weapons, no pretense of sweet-talking him into cooperation by at least lying about good intentions. Sixshot could have bargained with someone promising medical care, but he never got the chance.

"Collectors will pay top price for something as rare as you," said the rusted old neutral who tracked him down. 

He ducked his head and growled, but the old mech knew business. That business was evidently trafficking in 'things' like Sixshot. He had a muzzle and choke collar on Sixshot so fast Sixshot's head spun. They cut off his vocalizer and threatened to cut off the energon lines to his head.

"You'll clean up pretty." A satisfied pat between his audios made him crouch, bristling, but the hand just followed him down. "Don't fight it. I can make this a lot worse for you before it brings your price down. Remember that." 

His audios twitched wildly when he couldn't crouch any further. His engines, damaged and leaking, howled protest. He snarled a warning, but what could he do? He had nowhere to go, even if he could have managed a faltering run away. The choke collar tightened enough to show him the old mech meant his threats. The hand stroked him between his audios and along his back, and Sixshot had to accept it. Injured as he was, he already knew how bad off he was, but it _could_ be made a lot worse. 

He stumbled after the old mech, half-limping and half-dragged at the end of the leash.

Later, enough of the damage self-repaired that he didn’t limp so badly. Fat lot of good it did him, locked into a cage. An inhibitor claw between his shoulders kept him in his wolfmode. Choked, muzzled, hobbled, and mode-locked, he eyed the old mech warily. He remembered the threatening promise in the scavenger’s words.

"Sit."

He paced in the cage, exaggerating his limp. Look at him, crippled and harmless. Open the door, old mech. Open the door to the hurt wolf.

The old mech grinned, teeth snaggled and rusted. He wasn’t fooled. He’d handled intelligent cargo before. Trained them, too. "You want this?" He jiggled the dish of energon. "Start learning commands. Sit!"

Sixshot didn't sit. The dish was set down out of reach. No matter how he lay down and pawed through the bars, he couldn't claw it any closer.

"Sit," the old neutral said next time. Sixshot snarled up at him. "Not feeling cooperative, eh? Got a lot of spunk. Bet I can sell that, too."

He could. Sixshot had thought resisting the old mech’s demands would make him angry, more likely to make a mistake, but instead the old mech took his defiance as a cue to magnetize him down and look for things he could sell. It was bad enough being awake while uncaring hands rummaged around inside him, but the small yanking stings of parts pulling loose started deep up under his armor. 

"That looks valuable. Ha! They still build you with these? You don't need that to function. T-cog's worthless for you now; mark my words, it’d fetch a pretty price on the market. Don’t make me take it out. What's this?" The hands in him paused, and Sixshot's spark fluttered in the first stages of what he'd soon know as fear. "Oh. Oh, you beautiful thing. You're gorgeous. That's a weapons system, that is. Oh, come to me, you beautiful, beautiful thing. You're going to pay for my next ship upgrade, you are."

Metal screeched across metal, and Sixshot passed out.

He woke up changed. It wasn't so much that the old skinthrift stripped him for parts. It wasn’t that he couldn’t transform, T-cog locked down. The threat to remove it entirely hung over his head, but that wasn’t what changed. It wasn’t even how weak he felt after he got back on his feet. 

It was the cumulative impact of all of that hitting him as he stared through the bars at the dish of energon still out of reach. So much had been taken out of him for his defiance, and he was afraid of how much more could be yanked out. He already felt achy inside. His useless, mode-locked T-cog itched and burned. His armor couldn’t protect him against this.

Nobody had come for him. After a while, Sixshot stopped hoping someone would. It occurred to him that one day he’d look through the bars of his cage and see someone he knew staring back at him, and the idea horrified him. So much had been taken out of him. And the things that had been used to fill him up...

"Sit," the handler at the zoo he'd been sold to said, and Sixshot sat. 

Please, nobody come for him.

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Part Two: Some Recent History

**Title:** Dog Days  
 **Warning:** Spoilers for MTMTE, domestication, a very angry, grieving widower, BDSM mentions, and awkward robots.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW AU where Nautilator survived.   
**Characters:** Black Shadow, Blue Bacchus, Sixshot, Fortress Maximus, Red Alert, Nautilator, and the Decepticon Justice Division. And Deathsaurus.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Black Shadow - Restraint, and Tarn - Visible.

**Part Two: Some Recent History**

**[* * * * *]**

Tarn had seen a great many things in his time as leader of the Decepticon Justice Division. Kaon and Helex looking embarrassed to exist was a new one. Tesarus being Tesarus, he just seemed confused. Tarn had seen that before.

Vos was new enough to be thrown off by the weirdness. He asked if this was normal for missions.

"Not...precisely," Tarn murmured. He could understand the confusion, given some of the scenarios they’d acted out with Nautilator in the past, but no. No, this wasn’t normal at all. Usually confronting a traitor resulted in more running and screaming, not purring engines and eager consent.

Frag, now he was thinking about Nautilator again. 

He shook his head and refocused on the rogue Phase Sixer kneeling in the center of their circle. "I don't think you truly understand the severity of the penalty you've brought upon yourself, Black Shadow. We are the Decepticon Justice Division. Surely you recognize us?"

Black Shadow swayed on his knees. Judging from his wide smile and flickering optics, he was three banned substances and half a distillery from being scared for his life. "Yah, 'course I do! You...you played at the club last night, didn't ya? Good times. Liked the stage show. Like I said," he paused to hiccup, "I'm aaaaaall for getting in on that. Just wanna make sure we got a safeword in mind going in, yah?"

The D.J.D. took a collective step back, visibly reminded of Interface Safety 101 and Glit’s inventive threats to their equipment. Oh, Megatron, it was Nautilator all over again. If Black Shadow pulled out of a form for them to fill out, Tarn would -- well, he didn’t know what he’d do, but he’d probably have to fill the form out first to do it.

"What kind of stage show is he talking about?" Tesarus asked loudly. He tended to whine when he didn't understand what was going on.

Kaon very gently covered his face with one hand, hiding. 

"Aw, frag, it was great!" Black Shadow's enthusiasm had no limits and a sloshing tank full of high-proof engex to fuel it. He seemed to have forgotten that he thought they were some kind of band. Or a performance group, apparently. Tarn was sort of afraid to find out, but Black Shadow’s slurred words left him no ignorance. "Okay, get this, they had a fire pit, like an actual fire pit, and they were doing flaming shots off this guy's helmet. He had one of those flash compensating-for-something flaming helms, y’know the ones I’m talking about, and he was standing in a pool of -- "

"We're here to torture you!" Helex said in a rush.

Vos shushed him. He wanted to hear what it was a pool of.

Tarn decided enough was enough. "Black Shadow! You are guilty of betraying the Decepticon Empire and our Lord Megatron for money!"

Instead of proper terror, Black Shadow met his pronouncement with a lewd smile. Tarn almost inhaled a filter as the kneeling traitor leaned forward and ran a far too familiar hand up his thigh. "You got a **nice** lap. Awww, yah. This is **just** like the show. Yah, I'm a bad, bad 'bot. Punish me. Punish me good. I got the shanix, baby. I'll tip you real good if you pull out all-a the stops."

"...okay, now I'm curious."

Appalled, Tarn gaped. "Kaon!" 

"No, seriously, what kind of club's doing trials? How do they stay in business?"

"Tesarus!"

"Wanna call my name, too?"

"Black Sha -- **stop** that!"

"We really are going to need a safe word, aren't we."

**[* * * * *]**

"This never goes beyond this room," Tarn said.

His mechs nodded with varying levels of solemn agreement. Also sobriety. They’d passed around Black Shadow’s stash before starting this, since the belongings of a traitor automatically defaulted to the state, ie. the Decepticon Empire in the body of the nearest policing force, that being the Justice Division. Under that logic, therefore, partaking of a traitor's engex and assorted mind-altering substances became partaking of the Empire's...well, the Empire's engex and assorted mind-altering substances, to be blunt, but Tarn preferred to think of it under the kinder, more general term of 'bounty.' 

Yes, they'd partaken of the Empire's bounty. That sounded a lot better than 'got completely fendered off of confiscated illegal drugs.'

Especially since the drugs in question still technically belonged to the traitor they were supposed to be taking them from, as the traitor was still alive. Nodding along with Tarn's statement, in fact.

"I am **so** not leaving this room," he promised, slurring slightly. "If I leave this room, ya'll ain't doing your jobs right." He squinted up at Helex. "Hired ya fair and square. Want my money's worth."

Tarn coughed into his fist. That wasn’t quite what he meant, but close enough. "So we're in agreement. This doesn't go beyond the room."

Vos mimed zipping lips he didn't even have. Or maybe he was cutting his throat. Knowing Vos, either was likely as a promise.

Helex looked down at Black Shadow, then further down to where Black Shadow's hands were and what they were busy doing. Not that he necessarily needed to look, being that he was what they were busy doing. "You got it, boss!" he squeaked.

"Agreed," Kaon said far too quickly for Tarn's peace of mind. None of this was good for his peace of mind, but his mind really wasn’t what was calling the shots in this room tonight.

"I still don't get what we're doing," Tesarus whined, but everyone ignored him.

Tarn swallowed, bracing himself. "Very well. Since we're all in agreement," he reached down and picked up the riding crop from the table, bending it into a taut bow between his hands, "the safeword is 'Optimus Prime.'"

"That's two words."

"Shut up, Tess."

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Part Three: Some Current Events

**Title:** Dog Days  
 **Warning:** Spoilers for MTMTE, domestication, a very angry, grieving widower, BDSM mentions, and awkward robots.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW AU where Nautilator survived.   
**Characters:** Black Shadow, Blue Bacchus, Sixshot, Fortress Maximus, Red Alert, Nautilator, and the Decepticon Justice Division. And Deathsaurus.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** DJD adjusting to life on the Warworld, Fortress Maximus - Post-MTMTE 46, and More Warworld shenanigans.

**Part Three: Some Current Events**

**[* * * * *]**

Now that the formalities and requisite posing was over, it sure felt like they were being shuffled from the limelight rather quickly. “Is there a reason you’re all but shoving us down the hall?” Tarn asked. He kept his voice light but threatening, letting the smoky rasp of his filters give the words a menacing undertone. Taking an explosion to the face had turned his usual silken voice rough anyway. He might as well roll with it.

“Yes,” Deathsaurus said in a clipped tone. It didn’t invite questions. It attempted to nip at their heels, as if they weren’t hustling fast enough for his tastes.

Not that Tarn objected to knowing where the hand of his enemy-turned-ally was, but he wasn’t certain he liked having that hand pressed to the small of his back. They were only just allies, after all. That same hand had been fighting him recently. It felt strange to have it urging him along. “And that reason is..?”

Nickel chose that moment to skate a weaving pattern through both their legs, emerging ahead of them just in time to nearly ram headfirst into the mech who’d rounded the corner. “Epp-epp-epp! Watch it, big guy! Little person, coming through!”

Tarn felt a rush of fondness for the tiny medic’s oversized attitude, and a large portion of horror as he suddenly understood Deathsaurus’ hurry to exit.

“That,” the leader of the Warworld said somewhat wearily. “That’s my reason.” His hand fell away from Tarn’s back. “Blue Bacchus, the D.J.D.; D.J.D., Blue Bacchus. Behave. We’re all allies, here.” From the way he didn’t hurry to step between them, he didn’t seem to have much faith in good behavior. “No murder, please.”

“You.”

“I said please, you notice. You did notice that, yes?”

“You!” Blue Bacchus didn’t spare a look toward his commander. He’d been part and parcel to Deathsaurus’ carefully downplayed welcome of the Justice Division onto the War World, but that had been deception. It had been a lie. Now they were supposed to genuinely be _allies_ , and ooooooh no. No, that wouldn’t do at all. Blue Bacchus was no longer playing reluctant lackey while waiting for Deathsaurus to strike Tarn down. All his hate-filled, rage-seething attention was locked on the Justice Division, barely restrained by Deathsaurus’ warning glare, and the D.J.D. had the audacity to look slightly pole-axed. 

He took a step toward them, optics blazing and fists shaking at his sides. “You killed Black Shadow!”

Tarn coughed awkwardly into his hand. “Ah. Yes. About that.” This was going to be no fun whatsoever, he could tell.

**[* * * * *]**

It turned out to be a relatively simple procedure. Not one Fortress Maximus -- or, evidently, any of the professionals brought into to consult on the issue -- had ever thought to try, but he ended up concluding that it didn’t surprise him. The whole bunch of weirdo Scavengers seemed to come out of left field in terms of how they thought, Decepticons though they were. Why would Vice Admiral Spinister be any different?

Although, topnotch surgeon or not, the rest of his behavior made Fort Max intensely curious as to what kind of practical joke had created him. He made a mental note to ask Red Alert about the rest of the Autopedia entry later.

“Alright already, stop crowding me.” He pushed aside the crowd of technimals pressed around him. 

A chorus of little grunts and groans answered him, with tiny cheeps, chirrups, whistles, and a few whimpers from the smaller of the group. The preprogrammed ‘allowed’ sounds were all bestial like that. It thoroughly unnerved him being surrounded by beastmodes making unnatural organic-creature noises instead of talking like proper Cybertronians, but telling them to scram wasn’t an option. They needed a hero to cling to, and he was their hero, even if he hated being clung to.

He kept the unease from his voice and projected reassurance as hard as he could. “Vox boxes are an easy fix, I promise. We have a surgeon standing by at the base for our return, and the T-cog dents keeping you in beastmode will self-repair once we reset your internal systems. I just need to make sure everyone’s loose before we leave,” he repeated for the recently freed. 

It felt like he’d been giving endless variations of this speech since he’d started, but the poor mechs around him were disoriented, frightened, and probably traumatized. Demus had likely kept them conscious throughout most of the domestication procedure, after all, then Fortress Maximus had needed to bring them online to reverse it. No one had handled that well, yet. He’d never seen such wordless terror in so many optics. 

The group was clinging to him as a savior, but he didn’t think they were all processing right yet. He couldn’t blame them for that. As uncomfortable as the clinginess made him, he tried to treat the crowd of technimals as gently as his patience allowed.

It was too bad Demus could only be executed once. Bad as it felt watching someone in terror under normal circumstances, the subtle changes made to the Roboids’ bodies upped the helpless factor. On the surface, it made the technimals impossibly cute. Confused or in pain, however, the wider optics and chubbier, rounded, thinned armor emphasized their emotions. Demus had done that intentionally to make the Roboids more appealing as torture dolls. He’d advertised it to his buyers. It’d been part of his marketing strategy.

It was sick and wrong.

Fortress Maximus had been forced to witness mech after mech slowly awaken out of a barely-aware drone state into renewed horror at what had been done to them, and they couldn’t hide a single hint of their emotions. That option had been stripped away from them, along with their vox boxes. Their fear was splayed out for everyone to see. He hoped Cerebros would be able to help them cope. If not, maybe a memory wipe? Primus, this entire situation was fragged to the Pit and back, and that didn’t even count the Roboids already sold. Somebody would have to track them down.

One of the cyberhounds crept whimpering to his feet. Fort Max stopped checking boxes and looked down at him. “What? One of the dragons can curl up with you if you need to be held.” And thank Adaptus for that, because handling a crowd of clingy technimals was nothing next to dealing with survivors reduced to blubbering hysterics. Fort Max wasn’t much of a hugger. He’d sort of stood by wondering if he should pat them on the shoulders or something until more capable people had taken over comforting those who needed it. 

The cyberhound pawed at his leg. 

“What? What is it? I’m not picking you up.” He felt like an aft the second he said it aloud, but…no, he wasn’t picking anybody up. 

Teeth set gingerly into his treads. His optics narrowed and he tensed, wary and ready to step back, but the cringing technimal merely gave a tug. 

Fortress Maximus frowned. He didn’t think he’d stopped since beginning the reversions. “Are you trying to get me to follow you?” 

The cyberhound let go abruptly and shook his head, jaw dropping. A second later, he stopped, looking supremely frustrated at the amped-up beastmode reactions all the technimals still had running through their programming. Creature protocols were screwing with all their heads. Making an effort, he looked up at Fort Max to give a clear affirmative nod. 

*”That’s what it looks like from here,”* Red Alert said. He painted a heads-up on Fort Max’s vision, bright red lines highlighting the group of cyberhounds clustered at the door to the warehouse. They were looking at him, big optics hopeful and audio receivers perked up as he glanced over at them. *”Careful. It could be a trap. Some of these people you’re rescuing are Decepticons, remember.”*

His frown deepened. Yeah, Decepticons. He needed to talk with Rung about some of the things he’d been thinking about Decepticons since he found out the Scavengers had tricked him -- and saved all these mechs’ minds.

He tossed the last empty box up onto the stack he’d double-checked. “I’ll keep that in mind, but I doubt a bunch of cyberhounds and equinoids can do more than knock me over.” The dragons might cause him more trouble, but one of them was curled up as an improvised nest for shivering, crying trauma victims. The other was one of the victims doing the shivering. It was difficult to feel threatened by a crooning pile of trembling critters.

“Alright, Fido, lead on.” The cyberhound laid his audio receivers back, growling, and Fort Max checked himself. Now wasn’t the time to attempt a joke, however benign. These mechs were going to be sensitive to the slightest hint of degradation for a long, long time. He put his hands up, palms open. “Sorry. That was out of line. What do you need to show me?”

Still growling, the cyberhound turned to trot toward his pack. The other cyberhounds milled about, waiting until Fort Max drew near before they streamed out the door, heading through the junk yard. Some of the technimals crowded around Fort Max faltered on the threshold as if afraid to leave the warehouse, but most of them followed him as he strode after the pack. 

The cyberhound pack led him through mounds of junk, finding twists and turns through the maze. The place scared the Roboids, but it disgusted him. Turning a junk yard for scrap metal into a cover for a slave trade operation made a perversion of an honest living. Fortress Maximus felt his shoulders tensing up around his helm as he walked. The frown on his face creased into an intimidating scowl, which he knew because the cyberhounds ahead of him flattened to their bellies in the dirt when they finally came to a halt. 

Instead of a pack, they became a restless puddle of big optics. Paws scrabbled. The whole pack whined their submission at his feet. For the sake of their battered dignity, he chose to ignore their quivering. 

“What? What’s here?” There was a low hill of junk making a curved wall in front of him. A crude gate was set into it, nothing more than rusted bars stabbed crosswise to keep people out. 

Or, he realized, to keep people in. 

Slag him with a smelter. He might have just found Demus’ operation center, or even just a holding pen for those destined for domesticating.

Fortress Maximus drew his sidearm and cautiously put his hand on the rough gate. “Hello? If you can hear me in there, this is the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. Come out if you’re able. I’m here to free you.” A chain clinked from inside. Peering through the gaps in the bars, he searched the gloom for signs of life, but it was too dark without the floodlights on. He hadn’t been able to find Demus’ control panel for the yard. “Alright, I’m going to assume that means you either can’t hear me or can’t come forward. I mean you no harm, but I will retaliate to any hostile gesture. Please keep your distance once I’ve opened the door, or I may assume you are attacking me.” He pulled on the gate. It creaked. “Again, if you can hear me, this is the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. I’m here to free you.”

*”Be ready to defend yourself,”* Red Alert warned, tense. *”Somebody subject to Demus’ hacking might not recognize good intentions at this point, or understand anything you say. They might go straight through you trying to escape the second you open the gate.”*

Fort Max lowered the power on his sidearm. He didn’t want to blast a survivor into oblivion. “Don’t suppose any of you can tell me how dangerous going in there will be?” he asked the pack of cyberhounds huddled at his feet.

They blinked up at him. After a moment, Fort Max took a step back as they erupted into a sniffing, snorting pool of movement around the gate. Even the tiny palm-sized laphound took his turn snuffling in front of the gate as if searching for clues.

Head after head shook, audio receivers pinned back and perking forward in turn. He took that as reassurance.

“Let’s see what’s behind Door #1,” he muttered under his breath. Seizing the gate, he yanked. Metal screamed. The bars peeled back one by one, rust falling off. The dust turned the cyberhounds red and orange, their tails sweeping through the settling flakes. 

By the time he pulled the last bar out of the way, only a deaf mech wouldn’t have been able to hear him coming. Fortress Maximus kept his sidearm at the ready as he ventured in. The clinking of a chain had gotten louder, but he didn’t know if the increased noise came from multiple mechs or one, or what it meant they or he was doing. Better to be prepared for an attack than to be caught off-guard.

The cyberhounds took his hesitation as an invitation. The pack zipped in around him while he was still waiting for his optics to adjust to the dim night inside the pen, rushing forward in a yelping horde as he lunged after them. “Hey, wait!”

A dark shape, dark against dark, rose. Chains shed rust all over the pack, and a massive head bent down to the relatively small cyberhounds. A huge muzzle nudged their eager noses, wuffling grave greeting. Fort Max stayed back as the pack swarmed the chained technimal, figuring they could get the excitement out of their systems. He squinted at the large technimal, slowly making out more details. A…wolf? A really big wolf. With wings. He’d thought Predaking was big, but this mech had to be bigger than him in rootmode. That was kind of impressive. Alarming, too.

The bottom of his tanks sank into dread. He had the nagging feeling he should recognize that altmode.

*”Max, get out of there,”* Red Alert said urgently. *”Get out of there **now**. That’s Sixshot.”*

His optics popped wide. Sixshot the _Phase Sixer_?! What the scrap iron pothole had Demus been _thinking?_

The wolf looked away from the pack wriggling at his feet, alerted by abrupt movement at the gate, and met Fort Max’s wide optics. He glanced down at the weapon half-raised toward him. Self-preservation had Fort Max frozen between automatic defense and emergency retreat, however, poised on the brink of one or the other. The slightest hint of hostility was obviously going to set the Autobot off. 

Fort Max couldn’t think in anything less than dramatic news headlines about his imminent messy death by Phase Sixer. _Duly Appointed Enforcer Executed! Maximum Carnage of Fortress! Rescue Turns Tragic!_

Optics rising to lock on Fort Max’s again, Sixshot settled gradually to the dirt. He looked, to the Autobot, strangely weary. He made no sudden moves and actually tucked into himself as if attempting to look smaller than he was. Slowly, carefully, he lowered his head as well. His chin came to rest on his crossed paws at long last, and he gazed up at the Duly Appointed Enforcer as if waiting for judgment.

Only then did Fort Max notice the chains, really notice them. Shackles around each leg hobbled them together by thick, rusted chains. A collar and a muzzle bolted around Sixshot’s neck and snout, chained to opposite sides of the pen to gigantic rings set into the ground. Drag marks in the rust showed the limited freedom of movement those chains allowed him, hollowed dug into the ground where the six-changer had laid most often. The marks and chains combined told a story Fort Max was coming in on the end of, and his tanks sank even further as he studied the Phase Sixer, the Decepticon, and -- maybe most importantly right here and now -- the _technimal_ in this pen.    
*” **Get out of there!** ”*

Fortress Maximus reset his optics, then his vox box. “Hold on,” he subvocalized to Red Alert. “Can you understand me?” he said louder, to the wolf.

Who gave a distressed little whine. It was, by now, a disturbingly familiar preprogrammed sound.

Silence filled the connection to Red Alert. Fort Max didn’t know what to say, either.

*”…fragging Pit,”* Red Alert said at last.

That was as good a summary of the situation as any.

**[* * * * *]**

Tarn slumped wearily into a seat, feeling more than a bit diced around the edges. That had been exceedingly unpleasant, but at least it was over with. For now. Temporarily. Blue Bacchus was apparently one of the higher-ranked Decepticons they’d be working with as Deathsaurus’ allies, and imagining working alongside Black Shadow’s surviving endura unlocked a whole new level of awkward.

The Warworld’s commander had managed to calm his follower through some truly impressive management skills, but it’d been a close call. Tarn took notes on technique. It wasn’t every leader who could divert an enraged widow.

Right, well, on to the next crisis.

Helex muttered another snide comment about the general shabbiness of the Warworld, and Deathsaurus’ many optics flamed. Tarn winced. That was quick.

“Excuse me for having a fleet full of warriors instead of support staff,” the leader of the rebels snapped, and Tarn wracked his brain module for soothing words that wouldn’t offend either ally or subordinate. “We rely on what we can cobble together, or passing hires! The last group we shanghaied into working on the waste system refused to sign up with us at all.” Deathsaurus probably wanted to look sour, but he only managed put out. “Those lousy Scavengers said that only desperate mechs with nothing to lose would join up with my crew. And one of them was a K-Class, too! I mean, what’s the Cause coming to that a kamikaze mech has something more important to do than fight?”

The D.J.D. stared at him. He…really didn’t seem to realize what kind of light he’d just cast on them.

Tarn mentally rearranged his list of importance in his head. The D.J.D. were coming up near the end of the list, sadly.

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Part Four: Some Cohabitation Issues

**Title:** Dog Days  
 **Warning:** Spoilers for MTMTE, domestication, a very angry, grieving widower, BDSM mentions, and awkward robots.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW AU where Nautilator survived.   
**Characters:** Black Shadow, Blue Bacchus, Sixshot, Fortress Maximus, Red Alert, Nautilator, and the Decepticon Justice Division. And Deathsaurus.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** The remains of a D.J.D victim found by someone who cared a lot about that traitor, and Because Gone Fishing needs a cross-over.

**Part Four: Some Cohabitation Issues**

**[* * * * *]**

Tarn sat with the rest of his mechs in the Warworld’s canteen, trying very hard not to acknowledge the silent pool of awkward surrounding their table. It was a difficult task made all the harder by their unwelcome table decoration.

They were sadists with a taste for gruesome execution. Yes, they knew that. However, even the Justice Division had limits.

Blue Bacchus had plowed right through it. He’d strode into the canteen and slammed a momento from his dead endura between their trays right at the start of the meal, spitting, “Here. Have some company. I hope you choke on it.”

Since it wasn’t an active attack, Deathsaurus had shrugged uncomfortable acceptance, and that seemed to cue everyone else to allow it. The D.J.D. would have moved tables or thrown the grisly memento away, but they could feel the mood of the room. Quite frankly, the rest of the Warworld was of the opinion that Blue Bacchus was being entirely reasonable about the whole thing. If he wanted to make the murderers of his endura eat in the presence of Black Shadow’s severed hand, then they should shut up, sit down, and be respectful of their new dinner companion.

The hand contributed nothing to the conversation but a tiny puddle of noxious fluid. Strangely, nobody at the table was hungry anymore.

**[* * * * *]**

Technically, Sixshot didn’t fall under Fortress Maximus’ jurisdiction as the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. Technically, the Enforcer was aligned with the Autobots as a neutral force activated upon violation of the inter-factional agreement. Technically, that meant the Enforcer was duty-bound to _aid_ one of the most notorious killers of the entire war right here and now. Decepticon Phase Sixer and former Warrior Elite or not, Sixshot hadn’t violated a single clause of the Tyrest Accord. Since the war was -- again, technically -- over, Fort Max couldn’t even take a step back to act as an Autobot instead of the Duly Appointed Enforcer. All war crimes were conditionally pardoned by orders from Cybertron, and hadn’t that been a fun conversation to have, because _Starscream_.

Ugh.

So. He couldn’t arrest him, couldn’t treat him as a criminal, couldn’t even classify him as a threat. In short, Sixshot was free to go. 

Fort Max was beginning to understand the weary look on Ultra Magnus’ face whenever Drift came up in conversation.

To add insult to injury, he was obliged to offer help to all victims of this violation of the Accord. Sixshot undeniably needed it, although he hadn’t accepted more than Fort Max’s help getting the muzzle and cuffs off. The Decepticons were all rather chary about letting an Autobot take a look at them, but Sixshot was positively skittish. Fort Max’s initial impression of his injuries placed Sixshot in immediate need of emergency medical care, damages well past what the rest of the Roboids had endured, but the winged wolf wouldn’t stay still long enough for him to get a good look. He ghosted around the edges of the warehouse, disappearing if Fortress Maximus even looked in his direction too long. 

That kind of vanishing act made Fort Max intensely suspicious. Having Red Alert in constant contact didn’t abate his concerns.

Fortunately for his sanity, all the duty in the universe didn’t dictate how he approached the Decepticons post-reversal of the domestication process. Fort Max only had to offer aid to current victims. Further crimes would reclassify the Decepticons as criminals, even if not criminals the Duly Appointed Enforcer had jurisdiction over. As an Autobot prison warden, he could act to arrest anyone who broke the terms of their pardons.

It was almost a relief to have something concrete to investigate. He didn’t know if that was what was going on, but better safe than sorry. 

Fortress Maximus ducked out a side door of the warehouse into a small clearing of empty Roboid boxes. “A little bird told me you’ve been behaving suspiciously.”

The little bird in question chirped meekly from inside.

Sixshot glanced over and cocked his head, studying Fort Max. What looked like a jointed, stubby _tail_ hung out of his mouth. Was that a tail? Sort of a tail. Those were definitely legs. Eight multi-jointed legs hung limp on either side of the winged wolf’s mouth like bizarre whiskers. Two big claws hung down below them, almost dragging on the ground. The Autobot suffered a sudden fear that he was too late. The mech in Sixshot’s mouth looked dead.

When Sixshot chuffed dismissal of the Autobot, however, the stubby tail flexed. Fins fluttered underneath, and the powerful fin on the end flared as if its owner were attempting to swim.

Fortress Maximus had his sidearm out and pointed at Sixshot’s chest in a split second. “Let him go. That’s an order!” he boomed, reaching for intimidation. For as much as he’d like to think he could hold his own against any Decepticon gutted and mode-locked into beast form, this was _Sixshot_. “We’ve got a situation,” he subvocalized to Red Alert. “Get me an I.D. on the victim. Aquatic beast mode, eight legs, claws.”

Aquatic altmodes in general were fairly rare, and the details narrowed it down quickly. Red Alert gasped through the connection as a hit came back on the search. *“Nautilator; Seacon, last seen without a head due to Whirl. I had him classified as deactivated after Temptoria.”*

“Obviously not.”

*”Obviously. Be careful. He’s part of one the Decepticon gestalt projects. Limited combination ability into a combiner named Piranacon, who’s known for being out of control and nearly impossible to stop.”*

While Red Alert talked, Sixshot had fallen back into the slow, deliberate movements he used whenever Fort Max turned his attention on him. The exaggerated motions broadcast his lack of aggression. Except he still had another mech _in his mouth_ , so the Autobot kept his gun aimed. 

“Put him **down** ,” Fort Max ordered, pointing his free hand at the ground in stern command. 

Sixshot ducked his head in a graceful motion made slightly jerky from the way the finned tail hanging out the front of his muzzle flopped vigorous protest. Claws clacked. Sixshot opened his mouth, and Nautilator spilled out into an undignified pile of flailing limbs. Dumped into the dirt, it took him a moment to reorient himself. 

Sixshot kept his head down as if guarding the lobster flopping about under his chin. His optics stayed cautious on the gun pointed at him, wariness in every tense cable. Fort Max took a few steps closer, ready to help the Phase Sixer’s panicked…meal?...retreat. 

Nautilator didn’t notice him at first. Annoyed clicks snipped up at the winged wolf as the lobster grumpily waved his claws at the much larger Decepticon. He apparently hadn’t enjoyed being carried around like a favored chewtoy. 

Then he turned, took one look at the looming Enforcer, and skittered backward so fast he nearly ran up Sixshot’s forelegs. He rear-ended into the bigger Decepticon’s chest.

The sidearm didn’t help the reassuring image, probably. “I’m the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord,” Fort Max repeated for what had to be the thousandth time this evening. Trauma from the domestication process had left most of the Roboids a bit fried. They didn’t process facts about the situation well until he’d repeated it a few dozen times. “I freed you. I reset your programming. Vox boxes are an easy fix. A surgeon is standing by at the base for our return, and the T-cog dents keeping you in beastmode will self-repair once we reset your internal systems. I was alerted to your situation and am here to help you. Please step away from him, and I will escort you to a safer location.” He beckoned with his free hand, trying to make it clear the gun was pointed at Sixshot alone.

Instead of fleeing his captor to the safety of Ultra Magnus, the lobster attempted to become one with Sixshot’s chest. Sixshot, strangely enough, settled down on his belly as if to make it easier for the smaller technimal. Nautilator responded by burrowing between the winged wolf’s forelegs and hissing at Fort Max, claws open in defensive threat.

*”Max,”* Red Alert started, sounded thoughtful.

“Yeah,” Fort Max said. He jerked his chin at the two Decepticons. “Do you two know each other?”

Sixshot snorted. When he shook his head, it started at his nose and went all the way down his back, shaking his whole body in a twisting motion, but he looked vaguely annoyed a minute later, probably from the amped-up beastmode protocols that were messing with all the former Roboids. Fort Max doubted he’d meant to do that at all, and he had no idea what Sixshot had intended it to mean. 

Nautilator paused. After a moment of looking up at the Phase Sixer, he looked back to Fortress Maximus and hissed a hesitant affirmative. Nervous claw clacking followed the sound, and he backed up a little further as if hiding under Sixshot’s chest. 

Fort Max wasn’t sure if he trusted that. A victim could be terrified into agreement. “Any sort of link I’m missing?” he asked Red Alert.

*”Hold on. I’m not finding anything on Autopedia. There was a suspected combiner team network among the Decepticons, but its existence was never confirmed.”*

“Sixshot’s not a -- “

*”No, but the Terrorcons’ Autopedia entry is riddled with references to the degree they idolize him. It’s a possible connection through them. The only other connection is a rumor about a liaison between Naitilator and -- oh.”* Red Alert cut himself off oddly. The silence felt fragile. Fortress Maximus wasn’t sure how else to describe it. 

“Red?”

*”I’m going to classify that as unsubstantiated at best. Nevermind.”*

He didn’t like it, but he trusted Red Alert. “Alright.” He snapped the safety back onto his sidearm with a loud click and straightened to glare down at the winged wolf. The only reason he could was because Sixshot was lying down, which didn’t make him feel any better about saying this. “Fine. I’m going to go back inside and finish cleaning out Demus’ sales files. I’m leaving my little birds to watch you.” A chorus of scared cheeps came from the doorway. “They’ll tell me if you do **anything** to him,” he pointed at Nautilator. “Got it?”

Sixshot blinked at him. Nautilator crouched lower, trying to dodge the finger pointed at him. Fort Max narrowed his optics and waited for a nod.

He got it, but the tense staredown didn’t break until Sixshot dropped his head down on top of the lobster between his paws. Nautilator hissed, shocked, and Fort Max almost lunged forward. Unconcerned by Autobot and upset lobster alike, Sixshot offlined his optics and sighed. 

Many-jointed legs wiggled around under his jaw, pinned down by his chin, but a second later Nautilator’s claws flopped into the dirt as the genericon surrendered to his fate. He seemed resigned to being a pillow. Disgruntled hisses accompanied the scratch and scrape of rust scratched up by his many legs as he shifted around to get comfortable. Sixshot tolerated the wriggling and ignored the Autobot hovering over them both.

Fortress Maximus made a mental note to call Ultra Magnus after this. He needed to talk to someone who understood what it was like to deal with this kind of slag on a daily basis.

**[* * * * *]**


	5. Pt. 5: Some Snapshots of Life

**Title:** Dog Days  
 **Warning:** Spoilers for MTMTE, domestication, a very angry, grieving widower, BDSM mentions, and awkward robots.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW AU where Nautilator survived.   
**Characters:** Black Shadow, Blue Bacchus, Sixshot, Fortress Maximus, Red Alert, Nautilator, and the Decepticon Justice Division. And Deathsaurus.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** _The DJD's adventures in awkwardness in dealing with Blue Bacchus on the Warworld_ , and _How Do Refueling_.

**[* * * * *]**

“This won’t end well.”

Deathsaurus’ lips tightened into a thin line. “To be blunt, neither did Black Shadow.”

Tarn still had no rejoinder for that. At some point, he was sure, flinging Black Shadow’s execution in the D.J.D.’s face would cease working. That point would almost certainly come sometime after they parted company with the Warworld. More specifically, once working alongside Blue Bacchus stopped being a necessity. 

“You asked for our best sharpshooter to wield Vos in order to free up your medic,” Deathsaurus spat. “I gave you your options. You told me to choose the best and fastest instead of making the choice yourself.” His tone gave his opinion on that, and no, Tarn wouldn’t be making that mistake again. “Blue Bacchus has the quickest draw and unerring aim. The only one better than him was Black Shadow, and Blue Bacchus aspired to do everything like him.”

The more personal details Tarn learned about that particular relationship, the more uncomfortable the situation made him. Blue Bacchus had been on the List as well. He was beginning to think allying with Deathsaurus should have been postponed until he’d checked Black Shadow’s endura off, too.

Quite frankly, it was unnerving to watch someone who wanted them all extremely dead pick up Vos and snap off a series of deadly accurate shots that didn’t miss a single target. Black Shadow had been one of the Warrior Elite, then a Phase Sixer, for good reason. Apparently Blue Bacchus had idolized everything about the dead mech. Whether it was love, lust, or envy taken to a possessive extreme didn’t matter. Their partnership had been one of intensely personal business, and mercenary work had been that business.

The cold calculation in his relationship was twice as evident on the firing range. Blue Bacchus had fought alongside Black Shadow, and his skill showed. 

Helex sidled over. “You know how we executed Black Shadow first to terrorize Blue Bacchus?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yes?”

“Don’t think it worked so well.”

No. No, it hadn’t. Disturbed, Tarn watched Blue Bacchus turn the targets to ribbons. Usually the torture of one half of an endura pair turned the other to a wibbling mess. Rarely, he’d seen the other half ignite in a crazed rage. Either way, it generally made the other half an easier kill, but it seemed not to be the case with Blue Bacchus. So far, he’d spent his time around the D.J.D. in emotional screaming anger or hissing spite, both of which made him an awkward colleague to work with but fell well within the expected behaviorisms of a surviving endura. The D.J.D. could deal with that spectrum of emotion.

Then he’d strode into the shooting range as if every distraction was left at the door. He turned into a sparkless killing machine, ignoring everyone, including the rifle in his hands. His eerie, merciless focus down the shooting range chilled Tarn to the core. 

When Vos finally clicked empty, Blue Bacchus turned to walk back toward his audience. He jacked the rifle’s barrel to eject the spent casings, and the D.J.D. winced in shock at the complete, contemptuous disrespect in that gesture. People didn’t _do_ that to living weapons. 

“Rude,” Tesarus said, scandalized.

Tarn was slightly more concerned with the emotionless stare Blue Bacchus turned on him. Vos was thrust out in offering, and Tarn snatched at the rifle just before Blue Bacchus outright dropped him. 

“You know how much something like him’s worth on the black market?” Black Shadow’s widow asked in a monotone.

Vos stayed still in Tarn’s somewhat protective grasp, and Tarn glanced at him. “No?”

“I do.”

With that, he walked past the D.J.D. and out of the shooting range. Deathsaurus was the only one who didn’t take even a tiny step back to clear a path.

**[* * * * *]**

The trip back to Luna 1 was crowded, cramped, and uncomfortable in the way of too many people crammed into too small an area. Most of the people jam-packed into the limited cargo space in Fortress Maximus’ shuttle had extra limbs, thus throwing together more elbows than seemed physically possible. Worse, there were a great deal of small, prey-type technimals trapped among their larger, predatory brethren. Despite the Duly Appointed Enforcer splitting up Demus’ stores and his own limited supplies, tanks were pinched and neighbors were starting to look a little tastier than they should.

The domestication process had amped up the beastmode instincts, and the coding didn’t settle down quickly. Fortress Maximus pushed as many of the smaller technimals into the front to safeguard as he could fit in. The rest squeezed into corners and pretended that wasn’t the dragons’ tanks they heard growling. 

The drool was harder to ignore, but at least Predaking had the grace to look embarrassed.

Meanwhile, Sixshot claimed the center of the cargo area for himself out of sheer space requirement. He was massive compared to anybody but the dragons, after all, and nobody was about to quibble with a Phase Sixer with teeth that big. Oh, and who hadn’t eaten anything, either. He’d refused to put down Nautilator long enough to eat. That meant Fortress Maximus had the sole camera in the hold trained on him, just waiting for him to take a bite out of someone. Not that the Duly Appointed Enforcer would be able to salvage much of the poor guy after a Sixshot-sized bite, but, well, witnesses, trial, conviction after the crime, and all of that.

Look, Fort Max wasn’t about to try and fit Sixshot up next to the pilot seat. Neither Autobot ethics nor the Tyrest Accord wouldn’t let him leave the fragger on Demus’ moon. Sixshot had just as much right as the rest of the rescued mechs to transport and medical care. So he had to be taken with everyone else, and hence his silent, hungry presence in the center of the cargo hold.

Even the dragons were nervously avoiding the six-changer’s optics. 

Nautilator, on the other hand, had unexpectedly gotten Sixshot’s portion of the energon as well as his own fair share, since Sixshot pretty much dunked him in it until he took the hint to drink it all. The lobster was bright-opticked and wiggly as a result. And he wanted to go over…there. There there there.

_Click click click!_

Over theeeeeeeere.

_Click!_

Hanging by his scruff, Nautilator clicked his claws yearningly toward the far end of the hold where there seemed to be a pile of snoozing technimals. Enough! The big angry Autobot wasn’t in here; he felt safe. Let him down! Let him go hide with the other small, crunchy, edible prey critters.

Wait, what?

_…click._

Sixshot just lifted him a bit higher. The lobster’s flailing, flopping tail jerked him about in the air, but the wolf had him by the back of the neck and wasn’t about to let him go. Clicks protested the indignity, but then Sixshot growled. Very softly, but half the cargo hold shot to trembling attention nonetheless.

Nautilator curled in on himself, becoming a ball of quietly panicking lobster. His legs clamped close. His tail curved up to protect his vulnerable underbelly. Even his antenna lowered and sleeked back. His claws snapped shut, drawing in as defensive shields that would probably do him no good if Sixshot really wanted him dead. 

Maybe Sixshot liked his dinners marinated in lots of energon before he ate them. Please don’t let that be the case. He didn’t want to die. Nautilator didn’t mind accommodating the occasional Phase Sixer who wanted to eat him out, but he didn’t want to actually be eaten. He was a civilized mech, fraggit! What kind of barbarians were they? Mechanical people should kill organics to make into potable fuels, not each other.

“Is everything alright back there?” Fort Max thundered from the P.A. system, and the cargo hold’s tense stand-off erupted into a squawking, squealing, roaring bedlam as technimals attempted to scatter, hit the walls, and rebounded into chaos. One of the dragons bellowed. Someone took a snap at someone else’s tail. Angry screeching started a stampede as everyone tried to get out from underfoot only to trip over all the others trying to scramble away.

In the midst of it all, Sixshot snorted mild disdain at the whole situation, seemingly unaffected. 

Nautilator curled tighter, this time to avoid the warren of petrorabbits cascading off the top of the wolf’s head. The pack of cyberhound chased right after them, baying at the top of their mangled vox boxes. From somewhere near the front of the shuttle, the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord swore mightily as the cargo hold descended into the exciting bits from a nature documentary. Beast modes ran rampant. Clunking footsteps approached, and Nautilator clicked tiny fearful clicks. Someone had to restore order, but did it have to be an Autobot notorious for killing 10,000 Decepticons?!

Right, new plan. He’d stay here for a while. Safe. In Sixshot’s mouth. Yeah. That would work.

He hoped so, anyway.

**[* * * * *]**


	6. Part Six: Some Minor Complications

**Title:** Dog Days  
 **Warning:**   
**Rating:**   
**Continuity:**   
**Characters:**   
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** _Black Shadow/Blue Bacchus - sitting on each other’s laps_ , and _Sixshot - Undercover as lovers trope._

**[* * * * *]**

“This is exceedingly uncomfortable.”

Blue Bacchus raised his head, glassy optics searching blindly through an overheated haze. “Huh? Am -- am I too heavy? I can move. I can…” He started to rise and failed, too weak from the virus to move out of Tarn’s lap. “Hold on, I can do this. Sorry.”

Sliding worked better, and Tarn was tremendously relieved when his unwanted guest slumped onto the bench beside him. That was far better than continuing to sit in his lap. Keeping his hands carefully to himself, the leader of the D.J.D. inched the other direction on the bench. Once out of reach, he had every intention of getting to the other side of the medibay, even if his own brush with the virus going around forced him to crawl. Fine. He’d crawl, fraggit. 

He just had to sit here and rest, first. Fans pumping scorching hot air out, Tarn sat there and panted as he waited for the trembling of his cables to stop.

He had the time to wait since nobody had really noticed the weird incident amidst the wider chaos of the WarWorld’s medibay. Well over half of the population of the WarWorld had been hit by the infection currently making Tarn shake. Luckily for his dignity, they were more concerned with their own misery than with what was happening over in this particular corner. It’s why Tarn had picked it to collapse in. Its quiet location made it ideal to show a moment of weakness. 

Blue Bacchus had surprised him by stumbling over as well, and it was a testimony to how sick Tarn was that the mech had been able to slip into his lap. It was a testimony to how sick Blue Bacchus was that he mistook the closest big, warm body as his lover. Because, of course, nobody else among the Decepticons would hold him when he was ill. Not taking into account that Tarn, in his own delirium, had reflexively put his arms around Blue Bacchus as he wobbled into his lap, threatening to slide into a limp heap on the floor. But hey! Nobody had seen it happen. Tarn had held him for only a few minutes, stuck in a blank stupor as they huddled together, and now it was over. Tarn had escaped unscathed, no harm, no foul. All’s well that ended well. 

Tarn certainly wouldn’t be telling anyone about the incident, and he doubted Blue Bacchus would be, either. The guy obviously couldn’t tell the difference between mechs right now, so he definitely didn’t have much of his processor working. He’d probably remember this as nothing more than a fever dream once he was better. 

Or perhaps as a fevered _nightmare_. Abandoned on the other side of the bench, alone again, Blue Bacchus clung to the wall for support as he apologized. “I’m sorry.” His shoulders shook, and his head slid slowly down the wall to rest against one hand. He covered his face with it, and small, hitched sobs started leaking out from behind its pathetic shelter. As hard as his fans were already running to vent excess heat, every sob came out rather loud. “I’m s-sorry. I’m sor-ry. I-I’m so s-sorry.”

Ah, yes, speaking of exceedingly uncomfortable. Seeing the Justice Division’s most fervent hater slide from miserably ill to mourning widower definitely qualified. Tarn shifted uneasily and measured the distance to the bench across the medibay. Crawling it was. He’d prefer looking weak to staying here witnessing Blue Bacchus grieve somebody Tarn had personally executed.

“Hey! Hey, you!” A scowling medic half Tarn’s size stopped halfway across the medibay. His arms were full of much-needed supplies, part of much-needed delivery, but he paused to give the two Decepticons on the bench a judgmental glare. “What’s wrong? What’d you do?” 

Tarn blinked, looked around for whom the medic was speaking to, then pointed questioningly at himself. Who, him?

“Yeah you! Who else is over there?!” The medic jerked his chin at the shaking mech on the other end of the bench. Blue Bachhus had been reduced to muffled wailing. “Frag your bolts, we’re all in this together. Do something to help him, or pack your locker and get the frag back to whatever unit you got kicked out of!” With that, the miffed medic stomped onward to finish his delivery. 

Dumbfounded, Tarn stared after him. Either the medic hadn’t recognized the leader of the Justice Division, or he’d been hanging out with Nickel and no longer cared if his patient was a notorious killer of traitors just like him. Presumably like him, anyway. Tarn had generally assumed that everyone who followed Deathsaurus was a traitor, but after spending some time in the company of the WarWorld, he’d been revising his opinion of List mechs. They all seemed loyal to the Cause, in their own way. He couldn’t exactly fault them for not being loyal to Megatron.

In any case, what one medic knew, all medics would soon know. That included Nickel. It might star her, if circumstances didn’t improve between her finding out about Blue Bacchus’ breakdown and demanding Tarn’s account of the situation.

Tarn eyed Blue Bacchus and sighed. “We’re all in this together,” he muttered to himself, sliding down the bench. Interesting that traitors valued each other so highly. Deathsaurus claimed he’d have turned down Tarn’s offer if the D.J.D. leader agreed to execute his own mechs. That medic had just all but told him to get lost if he didn’t support a fellow Decepticon in a time of need. 

Bracing himself, he gingerly nudged Blue Bacchus in the back. “Ah…yes. Upon consideration, I’ve decided it’s not too uncomfortable -- **ack**.”

One nudge was all it took. Vents hiccupping, Blue Bacchus turned and plastered himself to Tarn, vocalizer emitting a constant buzzing wail. It had overtones of a high keen in it, as if even this sick the widower couldn’t forget what he mourned. Tarn froze. He didn’t know what to do as Blue Bacchus burrowed into his arms, demanding comfort he didn’t know how to give. The poor mech didn’t seem to notice his silent panic. He just weakly pulled himself closer to the big, warm body he’d missed, he’d so desperately missed, Black Shadow had been gone for _so long_ …

After some time enduring the pitiful little noises and mumbled words he made a conscious effort not to remember, Tarn finally set his hands on the grieving, ill mech’s shoulders. Blue Bacchus flinched, moaning, but Tarn gently pulled him up to rest in his lap, sitting sideways to fit. Other people might notice the scene as the medibay traffic slowed from its current frantic rush, but let them. Right now Blue Bacchus couldn’t tell up from down, the living from the dead, and Tarn might not be any good at offering comfort, but he could do nothing less than try. They were in this together, both of them.

**[* * * * *]**

It’d take time for self-repair to fix the Decepticons’ dented T-cogs. Those who’d been gutted by Demus past the standard domestication process were on a schedule of surgeries, too. Sixshot was far down the list for the simple reason that Luna 1’s medical team needed to manufacture parts that would even work with his remaining armament.

Of course, getting him to stop disappearing long enough for a full medical exam had been an adventure in and of itself, pushing his progress back even further. The medical team had grumbled about uncooperative patients up until they actually _got_ a full scan of the six-changer. Fortress Maximus and Red Alert had put their heads together trying to figure out how bad it had to be when the grumbling stopped cold. The medics wouldn’t let them see the scan files, but Sixshot’s name started showing up all over the surgery schedule. 

Best they could figure, the Phase Sixer had arrived on Demus’ moon already in bad shape. More abuse had only compounded the problem, and then to stack the domestication process on top of that? Maybe Sixshot wasn’t avoiding everyone to be enigmatic. Maybe they were seeing what it looked like for a Decepticon powerhouse to be traumatized.

In any case, his relative harmlessness right this minute was the only reason Red Alert had the gall to march up to him and demand answers. 

Sixshot, for his part, seemed vaguely alarmed by the Autobot suddenly in his face. Quick! Evasion, form of Decepticon arrogance! “I don’t owe you anything.”

Red Alert looked pointedly at the patch on his throat. “Oh really?”

The winged wolf ducked his head to hide the vulnerable spot. Also: guilt. Yes, okay, fine, the Autobots of Luna 1 had patched his vox box and kickstarted his self-repair after saving him from slavery and torture as a Roboid. “We know each other,” he almost snarled.

After waiting a moment to make sure that was it, Red Alert drawled, “Don’t overwhelm me with information, here. Wow. Slow down, I can’t keep up.” Sixshot glowered at him, but the Autobot merely tapped his stylus against his tablet, waiting. Sessions with Rung had taught him the value of weighted silence better than any interrogation.

It worked yet again, although it likely had more to do with Fortress Maximus peering suspiciously in their direction. Sixshot had been putting forth effort, Red Alert noticed, to stay under the Duly Appointed Enforcer’s radar. There was something there, he was sure of it, but investigating it would have to wait. Red Alert was more interested in prying an explanation of this particular piece of puzzle out of Sixshot’s stubborn jaws.

The words came out reluctant and slow. “We met through a…mutual acquaintance.” Sixshot looked down at the lobster snoring between his forepaws. “It was a memorable meeting. Seeing him after I was freed triggered a need to keep him close. For familiarity.”

The stylus clicked, then paused. Red Alert frowned. “Implying that he wouldn’t stay close to you voluntarily.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It was implied.”

“No, it wasn’t.” One massive paw gently settled atop the little Seacon as if claiming him. 

Sixshot wouldn’t be letting Nautilator go easily, Red Alert could tell. Beneath the paw, Nautilator stirred sleepily, blinking awake, only to go extremely still when he registered the Autobot standing in front of him. Red Alert seemed to freak him out more than the paw resting on his back. 

“It’s a mutual need for a closer relationship,” Sixshot bit out, optics narrowing as he leaned forward to bare his fangs at the meddling Autobot.

Shock froze Red Alert into standing his ground. “Are you saying -- “ His optics darted from Phase Sixer to Seacon and back again. The words choked him even as he tried to say them. “You -- and him -- you -- “

“Yes,” Sixshot growled. He didn’t seem happy to admit to the affair.

“But what about the Terrorcons?!”

Weighted silence worked when turned back on him, unfortunately. Red Alert withered under the scathing glare turned on him for that rather blatant lack of tact. Nothing like asking about a former enemy’s group of fanbots in the most blunt-object-to-the-head manner possible. What was he, a tabloid reporter? He cleared his throat and studied his notes to avoid Sixshot’s gaze. Nothing in the Autopedia actually said the Terrorcons were dating Sixshot. Perhaps there was nothing there but admiration. Perhaps Sixshot held less interest in them than they had in him. Perhaps Sixshot was cheating on the side. Who knew, and it certainly wasn’t Red Alert’s business to ask.

Despite how much he itched to know.

Nautilator waited until the Autobot made his excuses and fled to say anything. “Are we, uh..?”

“Yes,” Sixshot said shortly. 

“Really?”

“No.”

“Oh, good.” The lobster flinched as Sixshot blinked down at him. “Not good like you’re awful or I wouldn’t want to date you, but I honestly don’t remember ever meeting you and it’s kind of weird that you keep saying that we have when I don’t remember it. Amnesia’s not a foundation for a healthy relationship.”

The blinking turned to a strange sort of puzzled look. Nautilator got that a lot. It didn’t bother him.

“We’ve never formally met. You were asleep,” Sixshot said after a moment to organize his thoughts. “Over -- “ His audios twitched, and he scanned for Fort Max before lowering his voice just in case. “I called Overlord while you were with him at some point. Unless you two parted on worse terms than his usual, I think it best everyone here assume you were my lover, not his. That one,” he jerked his muzzle at the Duly Appointed Enforcer in the distance, “might not react well to finding out, and I’m not at my best right now. Once my T-cog’s repaired, the story won’t be important, but for now just play along.”

It was Nautilator’s turn to think. It took a while. 

Finally, he nodded. “Me and him didn’t part badly. I don’t think. I mean, I’m still alive.” That was more than most of Overlord’s fragtoys could boast. “I, errrrr. I appreciate the protection,” Nautilator said a bit humbly. Fortress Maximus wasn’t an Autobot any Decepticon wanted out for his fins. “But if we’re gonna do this, you should fill out the form.” A datapad was held up toward the wolf.

Sixshot stared at it. “You have a form?”

“It makes these things easier.”

**[* * * * *]**


	7. Part Seven: Some Major Complications

**Title:** Dog Days  
 **Warning:**   
**Rating:**   
**Continuity:**   
**Characters:**   
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** _Black Shadow/Blue Bacchus - Now or Never Kiss_ , and _Nautilator & Sixshot - I fell down some stairs_.

**[* * * * *]**

Tarn held it together until after the medics released him, sending him out of the medibay under strict orders to rest until his systems purged the virus and reset back to normal parameters. He was essentially being sent to his room.

He’d usually argue against since confining one of the leaders of the Decepticon Cause in the Warworld to his quarters wasn’t very dignified, but he merely nodded as he was given his marching orders. Nickel gave him a sharp look for the subdued acceptance, but she had many patients and no desire to expose any weakness of his for their edification. He was allowed to leave the medibay with no one the wiser.

He gave nothing away. He transformed six times between the WarWorld’s medibay and the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , but that was normal for him. The Decepticons in the halls moved out of his way as he rumbled through. 

Kaon met him at the airlock holding an antsy Pet on its chain leash. The resignation of a mech dragged for walkies by a murderous turbofox trumped any other concern. If Kaon noted anything odd about Tarn, it was dismissed for more immediate worries, that of a hyperactive creature who hadn’t been out of the ship in far too long.

Tarn looked down at the slavering beast, nodded, and stepped aside. “Go. I’ll take the watch.”

Kaon heaved a sigh. “Thank you, sir.”

The Pet hauled its master away eagerly. Decepticons shrieked in alarm and bolted while Kaon attempted to curb the Pet’s immediate attempt to hunt everything that moved. Tarn shook his head at the spectacle as he sealed the airlock behind them. 

Helex, Tesarus, and Vos were busy about the WarWorld, leaving him to keep the ship secure. Privacy, at long last.

He slumped back against the wall and pushed his mask up. Not far. Just far enough, now as before. His fingertips caught on lips roughened by impact, and his fans hitched.

“I have made,” Tarn whispered, staring sightless at the wall opposite him, “a terrible mistake.”

**[* * * * *]**

“Stairs,” Red Alert said in the voice of someone who didn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. “You fell down some stairs.”

Sixshot was, for reasons known only by him, looking up at the ceiling. He seemed to be studying the light fixture. “Yes.”

Red Alert glanced at the light, but it looked like a light. A very boring light. Sixshot was more interesting to stare at, so he stared. It wasn’t every day that a notorious Decepticon Phase Sixer limped into the makeshift Autobot clinic on Luna 1 looking like he’d gone five rounds with a Warworld. The domestication process had hollowed out all of Sixshot’s armaments and cored out much of his impenetrable armor, but it was one thing to read the medic report and another to actually see it in person. 

“I think the stairs fought back,” Red Alert said at last.

The light fascinated Sixshot. He studied it closer. Were he anyone else, Red Alert rather thought the Decepticon would have been shuffling his feet and coughing uncomfortably. Since he was Sixshot, he merely grunted. It was a neutral sound. Red Alert’s professional opinion on the fighting status of stairs versus Sixshot’s ability to fall down them had no bearing on events leading to Sixshot’s current condition. Stairs: take ‘em or leave ‘em.

In all likelihood, Sixshot probably would have done repairs himself if his T-cog had recovered by now. As it was, he was reliant on the Autobots of Luna 1. A lack of hands made life difficult for the various technimals still stuck in beast mode. Most of the poor mechs rescued from the Roboid slave operation were still galumphing their ways around the moon, turning Red Alert’s job of duly appointed support service for the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord into a pet-sitting service. He was trapped in some kind of ongoing security nightmare. He’d had Rung on his contact list before Fortress Maximus returned, but now the psychotherapist was on speed dial. There was a busy signal on bad days when Fort Max called first. Red Alert wasn’t above cheating and temporarily blocking comm. frequencies in order to cut in line.

Today was going to be a therapy day, he could tell. First there had been the incident with the otteroids and the cups that wouldn’t stack correctly in the aquarium pools, and now Sixshot had apparently declared war on gravity and lost. Badly.

Suddenly suspicious, Red Alert turned and briskly walked out the door of the clinic, taking the first turn at random. To his utter lack of surprise, he was right. Just out of sight, here be mechanical lobster. 

Glaring down at the skittish Seacon, he demanded, “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this?” 

Nautilator backed away so fast he tripped over his many legs and went over backwards. Segmented legs flailed wildly. Fins fluttered. Antenna waved, and there was much panicked clicking from claws which just so happened to look capable of matching the dents covering the back of Sixshot’s neck. Scared out of his wits, Red Alert sourly noted that the lobster still refused to speak. Autopedia entry and rumor both said Nautilator had Megatron’s voice, but Red Alert had no proof. He didn’t trust either source. The Autopedia also had a footnote on this simply, stupid genericon simultaneously dating both Overlord and the D.J.D. The entire Justice Division. At once. 

Pfft, as if. Someone had obviously been editing the entry to make himself look better.

Sixshot peered around the corner right then and growled deep in his chest. It scared the bolts off Autobot and Decepticon alike. 

Red Alert stumbled over Nautilator, falling against the wall as the lobster finally flailed over and lunged for the shelter of his newest lover. A lover covered in minor marks and injuries attributed to falling down a flight of stairs. That was no more or less ridiculous a thought than an insignificant Seacon collecting harem of supersoldiers, and, well, surely someone like Nautilator couldn’t force someone like Sixshot to lie about how he’d gotten those injuries. Shame him, perhaps, but…Sixshot was either lying or telling the truth, and if he was lying, he was probably doing it for his own pride, not under duress.

Red Alert braced his forehelm against the wall, gathering his courage. “Just tell me it was consensual,” he made himself say aloud.

Nautilator clicked, hissing nervous little sounds. 

Sixshot grunted. When the Autobot merely gave him a strained look, he used actual words. “Stairs. Falling down stairs doesn’t require consent.”

Red Alert just looked at him. He looked at Nautilator. He looked at the wall, because he really didn’t want to see either of them while asking, “Did you want to fall down the stairs?”

There was a very long pause. Excruciatingly long, full of awkward silence and people staring at various lights and walls.

“…yes.”

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
